


flint and tinder

by sphesphe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Boston Bruins, Fucking for Chemistry, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, Size Kink, trade angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 13:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13975668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphesphe/pseuds/sphesphe
Summary: “Once they get the chemistry going, [Nash and Krejci] could be as or more dangerous as we were back in our best days,” Edmonton Oilers forward Milan Lucic told Joe McDonald of the Boston Sports Journal.Everyone knows David's type.





	flint and tinder

**Author's Note:**

> Boston sports media has SUCH a size kink, and is obsessed with matchmaking David Krejci. Thanks to them, it's been two weeks and I'm absurdly invested in Rick Nash's well-being.
> 
> I listened to the Los Campesinos! albums _Sick Scenes_ and _No Blues_ many, many times during the writing of this. Highly recommend.
> 
> Many thanks to Las for betaing <3

When Don calls, it isn’t so much a surprise. It’s loomed ever since Looch departed and David’s wing has been a revolving door. Still, they’ve threatened to trade Spoons so many times and failed that David started to let his guard down.

“Who is it?” Naomi asks afterwards, her expression concerned. “Jake, or...?”

“Spoons. And a first, and Matt — Beleskey, I mean. And a prospect.”

A slow blink, as she turns the list over in her mind. “For?”

“Rick Nash.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen a little. “Going all in, huh?”

David laughs sardonically. “Oh. Definitely.” He lifts his eyebrows at her, and when she gets it she laughs too, just a sharp huff of breath.

“Oh god. I didn’t mean it like that.”

David chuckles again. He can see the humor in it. _Everyone_ knows his type.

Naomi says, “You don’t have to, you know. They can’t make you do anything. They can’t.”

He gazes at her trusting face, lined with concern for him, free of jealousy or anger on her own behalf. Strange, the way that they’ve let the structures of this sport set the ground rules in their marriage. The way they’ve gotten so used to it.

It’s not something that ever crossed his mind, all the ways it would dictate his life, when he started pursuing hockey as a kid. But he agreed to it. They all have.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I want to win too. Just feel bad for Ryan, you know? But for me, it’s fine.” He shrugs. “Not exactly a hardship.”

She smiles a sympathetic smile, leans in for a kiss of comfort, but when she draws away her eyes are still worried. “Are you sure?”

“Never heard anything bad about him. Good player.” He laughs again, even more sardonically. “Big body.”

Naomi sighs, and takes David’s hand tightly in hers. “Don’t. I know, it’s just... Just be careful, that’s all.”

He doesn’t say _I know_ back. Knowing does him no good, if the past is any indication.

 

Spoons sounds distracted when David calls. He’s probably packing already. Fortunately it’s not too physically far, the distance between Boston and New York City. There’s the sound of rummaging, and then Ryan says, “You don’t have to apologize.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Not yours either,” Ryan says. “Look on the bright side, okay? I bet NYC’s going to be great for my DJing career.”

A wave of fondness washes through David, crashing on a submerged spike of regret. He’d gone to Ryan’s last gig. They’d been winning; everyone had danced, loose and happy. Afterwards Ryan had been flushed with his success and the joy of the rhythm in his bones. David had liked the way it looked on him, and said so.

“Are you drunk?” Spoons had asked, and the wariness in his voice was a stab.

“No,” David said steadily. “Just wondered if you wanted to give it another try. With me.”

Spoons went silent for a while, hid his attention on packing up the last of his gear. In the end he’d glanced back into David’s eyes briefly, before his gaze flitted away again. “All right,” he’d said, his diffident voice hard to make out over the crowd noise. “Sure.”

David had gone home with him, and they _had_ tried. But the spark there never truly caught, and never would, no matter how much effort they expended on trying.

So he lets the fondness wash aside and bids Ryan good luck in the Big Apple, where he’ll at least get to be in his natural position at center. “It’s been fun. Don’t forget about us under the bright lights at MSG.”

“I bet Nash will put me out of _your_ head pretty quick,” Ryan says, but there’s no rancor in it. Or not so very much. “It’s all right, Krej. It has been fun. Hey, I gotta finish packing and stuff. So—”

“All right. I’ll let you go.”

“See you around, Krej.”

And like that, like three years of trying — he’s gone.

 

#

 

Rick goes to meet the Bruins on the road in Buffalo. It’s natural enough that he’s eager to start playing with his new team and start things off on the right foot, but he also can’t deny that he’s curious.

“You’ll be on Krejci’s line, almost certainly,” Don Sweeney had told him on the call after the trade went through. “I expect you guys will be able to work pretty well together. Develop some chemistry.”

There was a tone in his voice that confused Rick. Like he knew something that Rick didn’t.

So he goes, meets the coaching staff, introduces himself around. Everyone seems pretty normal, pretty welcoming. Not that he’s been traded often in his life, but nothing too unexpected comes his way.

Right up until Sweeney drops a hotel key card into his hand and says a room number that isn’t Rick’s.

“Thanks, I already got one,” Rick says, bewildered.

“That’s Krej’s room. Just in case. Not that you have to do anything, especially now. I know it’s all moving real fast. But just in case you’re interested, he can help you — get acclimated.”

“Okay,” Rick says, slowly. “Sure.” New team, new rules. Krejci has an A. Maybe it’s related to that? Who the fuck knows?

But then, as soon as Sweeney is out of sight, Bergeron swoops in. “Do you mind if I take that, actually?”

Rick hands him the keycard, more confused than ever. “Um, what exactly is going on? Help me out here.”

Bergeron — Bergy, Rick tells himself — regards him for a long second. “Don’t you guys work on your chemistry over in New York?”

Rick boggles. “That’s kind of fast, isn’t it?” Guys developed special relationships, of _course_ , but there was no use rushing it. Trust and — whatever — developed naturally, over time. If anything happened, it happened at its own pace.

They might be on an accelerated timetable here, he realizes. Especially for him, as... well, as a likely rental. “Oh,” he says, finally. “Okay. Uh, I didn’t realize that was so prominent in the job description.”

“It is in Don’s mind,” Bergy says, rather flatly. “As for Krej... well. He could use some time, all right?”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea. It wasn’t even in my head. At all.”

This seems to soothe any subtly raised hackles, and Bergy relaxes. “Right. Sorry for being abrupt, it’s just. Everyone’s talking about it already.” He rolls his eyes slightly.

“What, really? How can they expect it? Like. For sure?”

Bergy eyes him. “Well. Just... He’s got a sort of... type.”

Rick remembers that Krejci was on a line with Milan Lucic for years. He opens his mouth; closes it. Finally, he says, “I feel kind of objectified now.” He’s _mostly_ joking. “Anyway, what if he’s not _my_ type?”

“I know. Sorry. It’s not _completely_ like that, but it is a little. It’s sort of my fault,” Bergy says, apologetic now. “Me and Marchy. You know. The expectations around here have gotten kind of intense.”

“Well,” Rick says rather helplessly. “If it helps the team...”

“Winning is the goal. But not like that. No pressure, right? No matter what Don says. If it happens, that’s good. If not, that’s good too. Right?”

Rick nods. He finds that he’s sweating a little. Given the necessity of being traded, he’d looked forward to coming here. Now he’s not entirely sure what he’s gotten himself into.

 

They lose to the Sabres, which is never fun. He’s got a lot of adjustments to make. He tries to focus on showing up well at practice, figuring out how to fit in, but it’s distracting when Krejci — Krej now, Rick supposes — keeps looking at him with this considering, calculating gaze. Sizing him up.

Rick wonders if he measures up.

“What’s so funny, Nasher?” It’s Jake, already smiling in anticipation of being let in on the joke. An ongoing argument roils on what Rick’s nickname should be, there already being a Nasher in place; Marchy insists on Thing 1 and Thing 2, while Riley himself says he’s the OG Nash and Rick should be New Nash. Until an agreement has been reached, everyone has given into confusion.

“Oh, just thinking about whether size really does matter.”

Jake makes a face. “I’m not touching that one with a ten foot pole. A Z-sized hockey stick, even.” He skates away, and Rick catches Krej’s eye for a long second. He shrugs wryly, a _Kids these days_ kind of shrug. A second later, Krej smiles back.

Maybe the whole notion hadn’t occurred to Rick before, but it’s in his head _now_.

The problem, he decides, is that even though this whole crazy thing makes him feel maybe like a slab of meat delivered for Krej’s delectation... well. Krej _is_ pretty.

And good with his hands. And good at hockey, too. He’d vaguely known it before, but Krej doesn’t seem to mind flying under the radar. Up close, it’s easier to see. 

Especially when they’re down against the Canes and Krej casts some kind of spell on the defense, slides a pass right where Rick likes it, and he bangs in his first goal as a Bruin.

Winning brings guys together. Moments like that heighten emotion, lift you up together on the long in-and-out tides of the season. But even knowing that, Rick feels it. The spark.

Yeah, is there a spark.

 

#

 

Normally David likes the push and pull of flirting. He likes to play coy, exchange innuendoes. But they don’t really have much time for that. Every day that goes by is a grain of sand counting down to the end of this season and this opportunity.

“So,” he says, making his way over to ... Nasher. Big Nash. Rick. Whatever they decide to call him, he hopes it’s settled soon. “Nice game you had there.”

“Not so bad yourself,” Rick says, grins easily.

“Chemistry,” David says. “I wondered. Do you want to go and work on ours?” He watches Rick’s broad, open features go faintly shocked.

“What? _Here?_ ”

David gives him a look. “You’re not living _here,_ are you?”

Rick visibly flounders, looks around the room as if seeking help. Marchy aims a jaunty salute in their direction, like _Good luck_ — although it’s not clear which of them he’s aiming it at — and David rolls his eyes.

“Can’t I even get a dinner first?” Rick asks, slightly plaintive.

David almost laughs. _This is hockey, not romance,_ he almost says. But instead he goes with, “There’s not that many games left in the season. Should move fast, don’t you think?”

“Not _that_ fast.” He’s not quite smiling, disbelief still visible in his expression. He’s not so offended by the idea as he pretends though, if the way his eyes flick over David is any indication.

Still, David shrugs, backs off a couple of steps. “Well. Never mind. Just thought I’d ask.” He smiles blandly. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Rick says, blinking. “See you.” There’s a certain abstracted quality on his face as David walks away, promising a more amenable future to come. 

 

From from the very beginning of the game, everyone senses something unique in the mix. 

The Pens draw first blood, but sometimes when you rattle a backup goalie, they don’t recover. Sometimes you have to change the recipe. David finds a lovely pass from Rick, crashes the net himself rather than letting a winger do it for him, and draws blood right back. It’s electric, and it keeps thrumming.

Tuukka isn’t on his best game either, but the plays come together, just like when the flavors in a sauce finally meld. And this recipe apparently yields hats. Lots and lots of hats.

Who knew that all David needed on his left wing for best results would be a 6’4” power forward?

“So,” Rick says, stopping David after the congrats and the photos, the media circus and all the rest of it. He’s smiling, his hair damp and his limbs loose. The nearness of his body is like putting kindling on the spark that sits between them. “How about that dinner?”

“What, here?” David says, dry as sand despite the adrenalin flowing in his blood.

“Anywhere you like,” Rick says, and his grin effervesces with a similar adrenalin high. “Tomorrow.”

David considers this. “Well. I know what I’d like,” he says, and savors the taste of victory.

 

#

 

”It’s not exactly a date,” he tells Jessica, who is well-practiced at calling him on his shit.

Her forehead wrinkles. “It’s only dinner, with just the two of you, at a fancy restaurant. Which, I looked it up, is in a hotel.”

“Oh. Man.” Rick covers his face with a hand. “I feel like I got played.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then shakes her head. She’s not thrilled, but thank God, she’s secure enough in his commitment to their family that she doesn’t let it bother her overmuch. The expectations, the constant pushing for something, anything that will mean more wins. All the things that contracts are built on, and he is facing free agency with his eyes open. In the end, all she says is, “Just remember, Rick. You’re probably gonna be here all of a month and a half. Don’t you go making this into something it isn’t.”

With that in mind, Rick meets Krej at the restaurant, which is a very nice steakhouse — not tasting menu fancy, thank God — dark and tastefully furnished and supplied with a variety of interesting liquors. Rick orders an old fashioned.

Krej’s eyes crinkle as he laughs.

“So what,” Rick protests. “I guess it’s true. I’m old and boring.”

“You’re traditional.” 

“Maybe I’m just hungry,” Rick offers. Krej’s lips quirk up at that.

The conversation settles into almost normal, getting-to-know-the-guys kind of talk — trivial stuff, golf and food and cities, compare and contrast. The only hint of anything out of the ordinary is a certain look in Krej’s eye.

At least, Rick doesn’t try to be anything other than who he is, which is... uncomplicated, maybe, if you want to put a nice spin on it. Krej doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. He talks a bit about Boston, good places to go with family — the aquarium, the zoo down in Roslindale. Practical tips. It’s a weird thing to talk about, yet Rick finds himself appreciating the information. For his part, he finds himself going on a spiel about his favorite musicals, which Krej knows literally nothing about.

It’s not quite what he expected. Well, what did he expect, fucking on the table? They’re still practically strangers. The food’s good, solid. It’s hard to mess up steak. They both decline the offer of dessert.

“I’ll get it,” Rick offers, when the check comes. Krej regards him for a second and shrugs.

“If you like,” he says. “Thanks.” Then he smiles, a little teasing curve of lips. “I’ll pay you back somehow.”

The practicalities taken care of, Rick finds himself suddenly at a complete loss. There’s sitting at a restaurant table and then there’s some hazy, wavering vision of a keycard and a room, and the distance between the two pictures stretches out, insurmountable. 

Krej waits, and then finally says: “So.”

“So,” Rick parrots back, letting him take the lead. He seems to have much clearer vision, right now.

David wets his lips, the only sign of anything other than complete unflappability he’s shown all night. “Was the food good enough?”

Rick’s brow lifts. He understands, at least, the real question. And yes. He’s not opposed to this, really. He’s let himself get led here, he’s ready to make this leap. Yet: “Why are you so invested in this?” he wonders, genuinely curious. “I get winning. I want to too. But we did pretty okay the other day without any, y’know. Extracurriculars.”

David lets his gaze travel. Makes it obvious. “Because we could get even better.”

The moment lingers. Rick wavers, and then just like that: why the hell not? For a moment, it all makes sense: where else has this all been leading to, if not this? “Lead the way,” he says, throws his napkin onto the table, and pushes his chair back.

 

By the time they get to the fourth floor, tension’s drawn up tight in the space between them, ready to shatter. Rick expects Krej to do something more explosive to tip tension over into action. After all, he’s been the one pushing for this, shepherding it along. But once the door shuts them into the impersonal cocoon of the room, he stands unmoving for several beats too long.

“Second thoughts?” Rick asks, gripped by a sudden creeping sense of embarrassment.

Krej slants a faraway look over at him. “No. Just. Remembered something.” 

Rick decides not to touch _that_ with a ten foot hockey stick. Trapped in the space between door and bedroom, his body feels not quite his own — imprinted by the other man he suddenly wonders if Krej sees in his place.

He has no idea what they were to each other. What any of this means.

It paralyzes him between a desire for the next stage of this to arrive, come what may, and a sense that there’s too much here to blunder carelessly into. 

Then David — surely at this point they can be on a first name basis — breaks the spell. He steps decisively into Rick’s space and looks up through his eyelashes. Caught by surprise, Rick’s breath stutters in his throat.

Motion seems impossible, and yet in the space of a sigh the distance gets erased. The press of their bodies together flares the banked tension into a blaze, impossibly fast, so that Rick goes briefly dizzy with it. His hands move of their own accord to David’s hips, and David inhales sharply.

His eyes look very dark in the barely lit entryway. In this light, unabashed desire stands out on his face. If Rick wondered earlier why David was here, doing this, well — the answer seems obvious now.

He presses forward, backs David into the wall even as he slides a hand under his shirt, finding hot skin. David doesn’t make any audible sound except the shudder in his breath, and then he’s pushing Rick’s jacket off his shoulders, hands sliding down Rick’s bare arms.

He’s clearly into this so _much_ that Rick momentarily feels bad for having made him wait. To make up for it, he slides his thigh between David’s, rocks forward, pinning him more firmly against the wall. The exhale turns audible now, the faintest edge of a moan.

It’s not that easy to divest a man of clothing while also trying to press him as firmly as possible against a surface, but Rick manages. He finds the attention that David pays to his body as it’s revealed in turn also fairly gratifying.

But grinding against a wall doesn’t remain satisfying for too long, at their age. Eventually Rick nods towards the main part of the room. “Yeah?” he asks, hearing his own breathlessness with a lingering curl of embarrassment.

David nods, slides out from Rick’s hold and makes his way over to the bed. Rick gets distracted by watching him go, caught up in the promise of his graceful shape.

He must take a moment too long, because David twists back in his direction, says distractedly, “Well? Come on, L—” And goes so taut he might as well be made of wood.

It wasn’t more than a half sound, almost not there at all. But they both heard it.

Things he should do, the best thing to say. Half-thoughts flash through Rick’s inner vision as they stare at each other over what feels like a great distance. _It’s fine_ , or _I didn’t hear anything_ , or _Hey, don’t worry about me, I’m just the stand-in—_ No.

“Did, uh. Did you bring any lube?” he hears himself say.

David stares. Finally, he says, “Uh, yeah. My coat pocket.”

Rick finds the coat from where it got dropped by the door, searches quickly through till he finds it. He displays it with a flourish as he approaches the bed, and to his relief David starts to unbend again, little by little. “Glad you were thinking ahead,” Rick says determinedly, as he sits down on the corner of the bed.

“I...” David blinks hard, then seems to refocus. “I didn’t think you would have any on you.”

“Not something I keep in my wallet on an average day during the season, no,” Rick says, aware that this conversation is complete nonsense, but it’s better than talking about any number of other things.

“Me neither,” David says, “although you might not believe me, now.”

Rick flashes him a smile. “Useful right now, anyway. I’m glad you thought of it.”

David breathes out, in, slowly. Then he shifts, slanting the direction of his body to align with Rick’s. Wordlessly, Rick follows suit, nudging closer until again the shock of reestablished touch brings back that flare of heat in his core.

It’s good, David’s skin pressed to him, getting them both back to that unconscious place of simple animal desire. “Can I...?” he asks, hardly aware of what he’s asking as he drifts closer.

David hums a question, which turns into a surprised sound when Rick kisses him, a light press that deepens as David starts to relax into it. And then it’s like a switch goes and he can’t get enough, cupping the back of Rick’s neck and arching against him with the urgent inelegance of need.

When David falls back to catch his breath, Rick manages, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah— _yes_ —” And it sure looks like he wants it, every line of his body begging for it.

When Rick presses fingers into him, David’s eyes flutter shut and he goes into a concentration like a trance, sweetly responsive to every motion. And when Rick works his dick inside him, his mouth falls open and his head falls back and little achy punched out noises make their way out of his throat, and Rick wouldn’t stop now even if he said the wrong name a million more times.

With Jessica, these days, they like to play games: talk dirty to each other, make up novel fantasies to spice it up. This, with David, is brutally simple. The easy clutching heat of his body. The way he looks and sounds as he gets fucked harder. It’s easy to fuck him as hard as he wants, what with the wanton noises it calls from him, and when Rick holds his wrists down against the bed and really puts his back into it, David comes abruptly and silently and so hard it looks almost painful, spurting almost to his own chin.

Rick pulls out, repositions; strips off the condom and jerks it till he comes almost as hard, messily streaking all over David’s neck and chin and his pretty mouth, marking him _very much_ up.

It feels fucking great, something snapping into place, and right: chemistry, indeed.

 

Coming down from that takes a while, semi-consciously. Eventually, he manages to roll away, settles on his back to stare up at the ceiling. David gropes around on the nightstand, finds some tissues, cleans up the messiest of it.

Before too long Rick finds himself watching him again, as if magnetically drawn.

David meets his gaze for a charged moment. Then he says, “What? Is there something on my face?” He arches an eyebrow, snickers like he thinks he’s hilarious, still a bit out of breath.

Rick snorts a laugh, half hysterical. “Oh my god. Yeah, thought there might be something, but I don’t know what.” It feels good to let some of the air out of the built-up intensity.

As the moment winds down, he watches David come to rest. It’s like he can see David gather himself in, fold himself away. His long, pretty lashes flutter as he closes his eyes, draws in a long breath.

Rick must make some kind of sound, something raw escaping him.

David side-eyes him through those damned _eyelashes_. “What?”

“Jeez, you know, I just... _like_ you,” Rick finds himself saying, embarrassed even as he speaks at the admission coming out of his own mouth. 

It’s a mistake. David shutters even more. “I like you too,” he says, but he flicks his eyes in that obnoxious, obvious once-over, up and down Rick’s body.

Rick sighs. He’s tired now — really fucking tired. Sated and yet in some way not. His eyes close on their own accord, and he lets sleep in.

 

#

 

David goes to the bathroom to wash his face.

Part of him tries to be businesslike about this. It’s... like an arranged marriage. Hockey and a particular simple fact of chemistry. Everyone wins; nothing more. Another part of him, an evil impulse, wants to text Looch. Something like: _I just fucked Rick Nash. He’s almost as big as you._

Their text thread has dwindled to almost nothing. An occasional picture of their children or dogs. They’re in very different places from how it used to be. That’s just how it goes, with this kind of distance.

David gets dressed in the dark and silently leaves, sore and obscurely triumphant, already thinking about when they can do it again.

At home, he showers thoroughly, drinks a large glass of water. He has the urge to go into Elina’s room and check on her, but she’s undoubtedly asleep, and he wouldn’t want to wake her. Naomi’s waiting up for him in bed, the nightstand light on dim and her phone casting a blue reflection off her reading glasses, but she puts it down when he comes in and gets under the covers.

“How’d it go?” she asks, softly.

David thinks about how it went. It comes to him in flashes, like something he watched happen to someone else. And yet upon examination, his body still hums deep down with the basic animal satisfaction of a craving soothed. “Good. It definitely worked, from a chemistry standpoint.” He debates whether to say anything more, but then, she knows everything about him anyway. “I almost called him Looch. And then we both very nicely pretended I didn’t.”

“Oh my god,” she says, gone wide eyed. “I can’t believe you.”

He half shrugs, half collapses against her, and sighs into her collarbone. “It was pretty bad of me. He was nice about it.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Naomi kisses the top of his head absently, and he shakes his head. So she just clicks off the light, puts her arms around him, drawing him safely to shore, home and dry at last.

She likes to be the big spoon, folds neatly against his back, her legs tucked against his. She falls asleep like that, and held secure, he finds sleep not so long after.

 

#

 

The remainder of their schedule lines up in a unforgiving rhythm: game after game after game, no respite. They finish out the perfect homestand and then face down a couple of extended road trips. Despite losing Bergy and Mac, the finish line within sight motivates them enough to gut out some hard-fought wins.

It’s all coming together. Rick just wants to be a part of it.

At team dinner in Raleigh, Rick isn’t all that surprised when David can always be found somewhere on the other side of the room, busy with Pasta or deep in discussion with Z or Tuukks. This is his team, and these are his guys. Rick sits with Riley — “My big brother,” Riley jokes; they _still_ haven’t worked out a great nickname system to distinguish them — and Marchy and Gio, gets caught up a long discussion about the Olympics and Gio’s recent experiences there.

He _is_ surprised when a knock on his door later that night reveals David outside it. “Oh,” he says. “Hey.”

David’s a little rumpled, dressed in comfortable simple clothes, and his face reveals nothing.

“Something you wanted to talk about?” Rick tries.

“I don’t want to talk, no,” David says, and perhaps against his better judgement Rick lets him in.

The spark is still there smoldering between them, easy to blow up into a bonfire. Rick puts David on his belly, eats him out for twenty minutes, then fucks him on hands and knees till his elbows give out and he has to take being pounded boneless into the mattress, arching and gasping.

Afterwards, as David puts his clothes back on, Rick asks, “This chemistry... this linemate thing. Have you tried it with Jake too?”

David’s face screws up. “Brusky? He’s _21_. He looks twelve. He makes me feel old.”

Rick snorts a laugh. “Me too. God. Where do the years go? I swear I didn’t get drafted _that_ long ago...”

David grunts in vague sympathy as he wrestles with his socks. But then: “If you’re asking about my sex life, well. They’ve put a lot of guys on my wings these past few years, ever since...” The unsaid name fills in on its own. “I tried it with a few of them.” _You’re not special_ comes implied.

Rick doesn’t care about that. “Does the sex actually help?”

“You’re here, not them, so not enough. But they weren’t...” He regards Rick still prone and bare on the bed, makes a vague encompassing gesture at him. “Let’s hope this does.”

Rick’s not sure if he ought to feel vindicated by that or not, but he kind of does. It’s a strange sort of victory, even as David leaves silently, with hardly a trace.

 

Long road trips bring teams closer, but Rick hadn’t expected that to mean _this_. They’re winning, David is scoring in bunches, and every other night he drops by for a hookup. Like the chemistry has to be replenished on the regular or it might go away.

It’s not like Rick is complaining.

In Dallas, all the guys go out to celebrate having officially clinched a spot in the playoffs. The moment tastes bittersweet for Rick, seeing the distance between this collection of guys and these colors from where he was at the beginning of the season. He hadn’t expected any of this, back then.

He tries to inhabit the moment and not think about the Rangers guys, somewhat scattered now, or the concept of abandonment, or anything along those fun-killing lines. He’s here now, slowly nursing a drink and watching his current teammates enjoy themselves.

Out of nowhere, Pasta punches him lightly in the arm. “Uh oh.” Rick hasn’t talked a whole lot to Pasta one-on-one, although Pasta always brightens the locker room in general, indiscriminately including everyone in his jokes.

“What?” Rick asks.

“You look like you got a problem.” Pasta looks from the direction of Rick’s gaze, back to Rick.

“I don’t. Really.”

Pasta grins, ignoring Rick’s denial and clapping him on the back companionably. “I get it. He was my favorite player growing up,” he says, without a trace of embarrassment.

Rick wonders if this is some kind of subtle warning — _he’s my idol, quit getting your feelings all over him_ — but he suspects that would be a bit much for someone as open-faced as Pasta. So he just shrugs in agreement. “He’s good, yeah. A... interesting guy.”

Pasta shakes his head. “You can join the club. Spoons had it bad. Skey too, little bit. Brusky’s like halfway there.”

Although this whole line of conversation came out of nowhere, Rick doesn’t try to pretend he misunderstands. _I_ like _him, that’s all. That’s not much, right? No big deal?_ But trying to clarify the precise shade of his feelings really wouldn’t help in this situation. “And you, too?”

Pasta’s grin falters a little and goes wry. “Hey, I’m club president. How can you not?”

They watch him doing nothing very much, drinking a glass of wine, wearing lame khaki pants and probably making idle dry quips at Dobby. “It seems like it should be pretty easy not to,” Rick observes.

“Yeah, I’m telling him you said that,” Pasta says with a laugh. “Krej!” And he goes over to join David, saying something that Rick can’t hear, eventually gestures in his direction. David looks over and meets his eyes for one fraught moment. Rick tips his glass to him in an ironic salute.

A moment later, David simply turns away, a clear dismissal. Welcome to the club.

Well. At least it’s one that’s winning. One that made the playoffs. Anything to help the team, he thinks, and goes to try and find someone who’ll celebrate it with him.

 

#

 

In Winnipeg, David goes for a walk. On the tail end of these piled-up road trips, he likes to take some brief moments away from everyone else, wander and do some random surprise gift shopping for Naomi and Elina and his parents. It’s not like there’s much else to do in Winnipeg.

Loaded down with a couple of bags containing even more cute outfits for Elina to add to her already overflowing closet, he heads into a Starbucks, where his eye is immediately drawn to a tall figure who he quickly realizes is, of all people, Rick. Of course.

David orders his coffee; by the time he’s waiting for it at the pick-up counter, Rick has noticed his presence and nods genially, his own cup in hand.

“What’d you get?” Rick asks, tipping his chin at the bags.

David shows him the cutest outfit he got. “The place is a few blocks from here, if you wanted to get anything for yours.”

“Yeah, good idea. You can never have too many, even if they outgrow them in about five seconds.”

“You have to take the chance to dress them up as much as possible now. Before they start making their own choices.”

Rick smiles at that. “Yeah. It happens so freaking fast.” He trails David out of the store, asks “Heading back?” When David assents, he falls into step alongside.

The banality of this interaction rubs David strangely. It shouldn’t be this easy, like they’re friends, or acquaintances. Or anything.

As they wait to cross the street, Rick looks over awkwardly and clears his throat. “So hey, want to grab lunch or something?” He’s smiling with a weird little edge to it that’s hard to look at.

David looks at him anyway. “Can’t we just skip ahead to the good part?” he says.

The intention is to hurt, but it comes out double-edged, cuts back with a blade of shame. But he said it, and it can’t be unsaid.

Rick doesn’t say anything in immediate reply, but his stride falters for a beat. After a minute he says, evenly, “Right. Well, I’ve got things to take care of this afternoon, so. Maybe tomorrow, eh?”

David hasn’t done anything _wrong_. He’s been clear from the beginning what he wants and what this can be. Rick’s... nice. To see him crash up against the barbed wire fences and force David to repel him isn’t fun for anyone. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, helplessly.

“Why are you?” Rick says, shortly. Up to now, he’s kept everything so remarkably even-keeled that this tiny flash of temper unsettles David more than he’d like to admit.

“I have to.” And that comes out far too honest, so he adds, “I want to.”

Rick pins him with a stare. He reaches out to grab David’s arm and pulls him into an alcove in front of a closed office building entrance. Quiet and intense, he says, “Christ. We don’t have to. You know that, right?”

“I want to,” David says again, attempting finality. “I think that’s obvious.”

“You don’t want to even look at me outside of when—” he drops his voice to something barely audible— “we’re actually fucking, so it’s not that obvious.”

Despite the frank words, whatever anger has powered him to this point seems to have been carefully put away, leaving only wary regard in its place. For some reason, David finds this obscurely annoying. “It’s _hockey_ ,” he bursts out. “It’s about chemistry, playing well, not whatever you feel about you and me.”

“I get it. I do. But it doesn’t mean we have to be shitty to one another.” He says it so matter-of-factly that David wants to scream.

Keeping his voice low, David grates out, “What are we supposed to be? We do this for a few more weeks, then we won’t talk when you’re on a new team. Or are you going to sign a deal with Donny Sweeney just so we can keep fucking? I don’t think so.”

Rick tips his head back to search the overcast sky. Then he stares into David’s face, choosing his words. “It’s not a lot of things. I know. I’m not asking for that.” He’s only inches away, too close, huddled near for privacy and to hear the words being exchanged at low volume. David can briefly smell his shampoo, familiar now. “Can’t we be— friendly. At least.”

David bites back the automatic denial. There’s a charge in his chest, stinging. Regrets and scars that unfairly bleed into the present. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Is this really the best place to talk about this,” he adds, trying to back away. Ideally he’d like to not talk about it at all. But as he knows very well, what you want often has no bearing on reality. 

“You know, I’m not him,” Rick says, and then compresses his mouth into a firm line.

It stings him into motion, so fast that hot coffee spills onto his hand, a faint grounding of pain as David strides away. It keeps him present in his body as he swallows the surge that threatens to overwhelm him. Rick doesn’t try to follow.

 

#

 

Rick isn’t sure what he’d do if David knocked on his door again after that, but the situation doesn’t arise.

They win. Sometimes they lose. They’ve played the Florida teams so much it starts to feel like Groundhog Day. This close to the end, movement in the standings is nearly impossible, so it all happens at a certain remove. 

Rick’s agent reports that the Bruins have opened communications about signing him. Negotiation starting points are always sort of a joke, but Joe just makes a scoffing noise when Rick asks. “They’re going hard on the winning environment and skilled linemates angle,” Joe says, his tone indicating what he thinks of that. “But there’s plenty of time and room to get them to move. Anyway, you’ll have tons of options, don’t worry. There’s no rush. We’ll see what happens.”

In Sunrise, their last regular season game on the road, he reaches a decision. He’s turned it over in his mind pretty comprehensively, and he’s come to the conclusion that he was in the wrong. David hadn’t ever been deceptive about what his boundaries were. Rick blames himself for the unasked-for attempt to shift them.

It’ll be an inevitably awkward, difficult conversation, but he’s a grown man, and he can handle ten minutes of hard honesty. He steels himself and goes to knock on David’s door.

David doesn’t look particularly surprised to see him. As he lets Rick in, tension lines him in a way that ratchets up the guilt sitting heavy in Rick’s middle.

“Look, I just wanted to apologize,” Rick begins.

David leans against a dresser, folds his arms in tight. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you. I know... I get that stuff is complicated. We all have our histories. You have a right to set whatever boundaries that you want, and I should have respected them better.” His hands have found their way into his pockets, which feels too absurdly casual, so he takes them out. He fights an urge to fidget.

The curtain to the balcony gapes open, but the view overlooks orange streetlights from the hotel parking lot rather than the endless nighttime ocean. The black-and-white framed photograph over the bed sits askew by just half a degree. An iPad is laid carelessly at the edge of the bed, in danger of being knocked onto the floor. When Rick finally looks back to David, he’s already looking back, locked on Rick’s face.

“I’m sorry too,” David says, evenly. “I—” He looks away for a long time, then back. “I know you’re not him. It was unfair of me.”

His face doesn’t give much away. Rick watches his hands, clenched tight atop his folded arms. “It’s okay,” he says. “I mean. It’s not a totally unflattering comparison,” he adds, and David half smiles, very briefly.

Well. That seems to be the worst of it, Rick reflects. It could have been a lot worse. “So, no hard feelings?” he asks tentatively.

David darts him a sideways glance. “I think we got all the hard feelings out of the way already,” he says lightly.

Startled, Rick laughs out loud, sharp in the quiet. “Yeah. I guess so.” And there: so the uncomplicated feeling of _like_ hasn’t yet faded. It surprises him.

Stillness falls. The things that needed to be said have been said. Rick straightens, as satisfied as he can be under the circumstances, and draws breath to say, _Well, I’ll get out of your hair_.

“Do you—” David starts, and then falls silent. Rick makes an inquiring face and waits. Finally, David lets his arms fall open and loose at his sides, his gaze steadying to meet Rick’s. He takes a careful breath and asks, “Do you want to get dinner sometime?”

Rick exhales, considers the opening unfolding before them.

“I think you owe me lunch,” he offers, and when David nods and his long lashes dip in acknowledgement, it feels like the tender coaxing to life of a tiny, bright spark.

**Author's Note:**

> Krej really did go to Ryan Spooner's last DJing gig, and I am very sad that I did not. I thought we would have more time to do so :(
> 
> I still can't get over the fact that someone asked Looch how he felt about his ex-boyfriend getting set up with a 6'4" replacement. /o\ what is this world we live in


End file.
